"Almost Adults"

We thought we had time.

That was the first lie we told ourselves. We sat on the cracked rooftop of Maya’s apartment building, a half-empty pizza box between us, the city lights blinking like distant fireflies. The summer before college had a strange glow to it — not quite freedom, not quite farewell.

“We should do something big,” said Dev, tossing a crust into the box.

“like what?” Maya asked, lying back against her hoodie.

“I don’t know. Road trip? Tattoo? Fake our deaths and start new lives in Italy?”

I snorted. “I barely have gas money, and you still ask your mom to schedule your dentist appointments.”

He grinned. “So that’s a maybe?”

We laughed. That’s what we did best. Covered our panic in sarcasm and pizza grease.

It’s weird — everyone kept saying we were “adults now,” as if getting a diploma and registering for classes automatically upgraded our software. But in reality, we were just taller kids in slightly better shoes.

Maya still cried when things got too quiet at night. Dev had no idea what he wanted to major in. I still woke up thinking about a girl who broke my heart in tenth grade because I saw her post a picture with someone new.

Adults? Not even close.

The next few weeks felt like someone hit fast-forward. Dorm shopping. Goodbyes. The group chat that started out as “Lifelong Homies” slowly turned into dry "u good?" texts and meme reactions.

Dev ended up at a school three states away. Maya moved in with an aunt in the city to study design. I stayed local, mostly for my mom — she wouldn’t admit it, but I knew she needed me.

That first semester was a blur of awkward lectures, vending machine dinners, and pretending I had it together. I saw Dev’s posts about college parties, and Maya’s Insta filled with moody sketches and latte art. I couldn’t help but wonder if they were doing it better than me.

Then came the night Dev called.

“Yo,” he said, voice a little too steady. “You up?”

It was 1:47 a.m. Of course I was up. Sleep and I weren’t on speaking terms.

“Yeah,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Man, I don’t know. I’m just… here. In this dorm. Surrounded by people I don’t know. And everyone acts like they’re thriving. Like they belong. But I feel like I’m faking it.”

There was a pause. I let it breathe.

“Same,” I said. “Every day I walk into class like I’m supposed to be there, but inside I feel like someone’s gonna find out I’m not ready.”

Another pause. Then he chuckled. “We’re really bad at being adults, huh?”

“Dude. We’re almost adults at best.”

We stayed on the phone until sunrise, talking about nothing and everything. Maya joined the call around 4 a.m., half-asleep, muttering about how her design professor made her cry but also somehow changed her life. We didn’t solve anything. But we remembered we weren’t alone in the confusion — and that meant something.

Months passed. Seasons changed. Some things got better — we figured out laundry, discovered cheap meals that didn’t taste like cardboard, and learned how to fake confidence just enough to get by.

We started calling more. Not daily, but enough.

Then came winter break.

We met at the same rooftop, bundled in oversized hoodies and mismatched gloves. Same city, but something had shifted.

“Guess what,” Maya said, bouncing slightly. “I sold one of my prints. Real money. Like… more than ramen-level money.”

Dev raised a paper cup in salute. “To Maya, our resident tortured artist.”

I looked at them — same faces, but different somehow. A little wiser. A little weathered. Still us, though.

“I think I’m changing majors,” Dev admitted, staring at the sky. “Engineering’s fine, but I keep waking up thinking about writing.”

“Do it,” Maya said, without hesitation.

I nodded. “Better now than ten years into a job you hate.”

He smiled. “You guys are the best.”

We fell into silence, the good kind. The kind that says everything without saying anything.

That night, we didn’t need to plan something big. We didn’t need tattoos or fake deaths or cross-country drives. We just needed to be there — almost adults, halfway figured out, still stumbling but standing.

The city below kept moving. Just like us.

And maybe we didn’t have it all together. Maybe we never would.

But that’s the thing no one tells you about growing up: it’s not about arriving. It’s about showing up — messy, unsure, and honest.

We were still learning. Still late to class, still bad at budgeting, still dreaming out loud.

But we were doing it.

Almost adults.

And for now, that was more than enough.